


A Drop of Fire - Part III

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [16]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Their rage supplies them with weapons."   --Virgil</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Drop of Fire - Part III

**Author's Note:**

> Beta beta beta credit: writestufflee, merryamelie, C, and lauranna

Anakin ripped the last power cell out of the computer system.  That crippled the ship; the bridge controls wouldn’t be able to talk to the sublights to get them to engage.  “Okay, I’m done disabling all of the ships we could find,” he said into his comm.

“Good,” Vos replied.  The signal was almost obliterated by interference, but passable, since comms had become a necessity.  Anakin and Rillian could talk to each other just fine through the shared paths of the training bonds, but Quinlan Vos and Aayla Secura couldn’t hear either of them.  For Rillian, that was normal, but Anakin was used to being able to make himself heard by _anyone_.  He was starting to suspect that their earlier difficulties in finding people with the Force was not some new drug of Zan Arbor’s, but a natural occurrence.  More than once, he’d caught himself thinking that there was something familiar about this place.

[Maybe something about Vader?] Rillian had asked before they’d separated—he to cut off Zan Arbor’s means of escape, and she to try and locate a primary control center for the complex.  He’d brought a thermal detonator, and given it to Rillian to dispose of.  Nothing made it harder for the bad guys to rally than a lack of coordinated resources.

“Where are you?” he asked now, before he made ready to sneak back out of the ship.

“Almost there,” Vos answered.  “We had to deal with a search party about halfway out from the crash site.  Anything new on your end?”

“Not yet.  Talk to you again in five,” Anakin promised, and shut down the comm.  _Rillian?_

 _No central command found,_ she replied instantly.  _But…there are some bad smells._

 _Like what?_ he asked.

 _Sickness,_ Rillian answered, sounding unnerved. 

That didn’t sound good.  _Be careful,_ Anakin sent, and slipped down the transport boarding ramp.  He had no sooner put a boot down on the hangar floor when a blaster was pointed at his nose.

“You no be here,” the Duros aiming the blaster said.  Anakin looked up, cursing; he’d sensed someone in the hangar, but not where, and still he hadn’t been cautious enough.

Then again…  Anakin gulped as nausea reared up.  “You don’t look so hot,” he said.  The Duros had several large, peeling purple blisters on his green skin, all of them leaking dark fluid, and he was covered in dots of perspiration.  Anakin didn’t even know that Duros _could_ sweat.

The Duros mumbled something in Durese, the blaster point dipping a few centimeters.  Anakin reacted, slapping the pistol out of the man’s hand and preparing for a fight.

The Duros, instead of attacking, turned his head to watch the blaster land on the floor a few meters away.  “You no be here,” he repeated, and then slumped to the ground.

Anakin stared down at the unconscious Duros.  “Uh oh,” he said, just before a surge of unexpected rage dropped him to his knees.

 

*          *          *          *

 

For a long, heart-pounding moment, Qui-Gon did nothing more than stare.  Being regarded by those shining eyes was exhilarating—and terrifying.  He imagined that prey standing before a predator felt much the same way.

Obi-Wan—Venge—tilted his head.  “Are you frightened of me?”

Lying, Qui-Gon thought, would be foolish.  “A bit, yes,” he admitted.  He was aware of an intensity of presence, of barely contained energy lurking just below the surface of Obi-Wan’s skin.  “Should I be?”

Venge smiled.  “Yes.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Quinlan stopped in place, unconsciously raising his chin as if to sniff the air.  Aayla, following closely at his heels, almost walked right into her Master.

“What is it?” Aayla asked, and then her eyes widened.  “Oh, gods,” she whispered, finally picking up on the fury that was radiating out from Zan Arbor’s compound in near-visible waves.

“Oh, fuck,” Quinlan muttered, and broke into a run. _I hope that doesn’t mean that Jinn’s dead._

 

*          *          *          *

 

The remaining cuff split apart and fell to the ground when Venge looked at it.  Then he stood up, stretching in place.  Obi-Wan had always possessed a certain grace of movement, one that Qui-Gon had long admired.  His movements were slower now, unhurried, and there was something predatory about them. 

Then those amber eyes locked on Qui-Gon’s own once more, and Venge walked with that same preternatural grace towards him.  He bent over, close enough that Qui-Gon could feel Venge’s radiated warmth against the skin of his face and neck.

“What—?”

“Shh,” Venge murmured, and took a deep breath.  One of his hands came down on Qui-Gon’s shoulder, and with that touch came a spark that was equal parts fear and lust.

“I don’t think that now is the best time,” Qui-Gon said, and internally cringed at the too-high sound of his voice.

There was another intake of breath, and then a brief nuzzling at the corner of his jaw.  _He’s scenting me_ , Qui-Gon realized, unable to decide if that was alarming or arousing.

“I couldn’t think of a better one.”  Venge’s voice was still soft, but there was an undertone of command, accompanied by heat.

“However, I do not like sharing,” he said, and Qui-Gon winced when there was an explosion of sparks from five different points around the room.

 

*          *          *          *

 

 _Anakin!_  Rillian shouted in his head, alarmed.  _Did you—_

 _I feel it,_ he said, the words echoing in his ears from repeating them out loud.  Anakin dropped his hands from his head and used the ship’s ramp to climb to his feet.  He had to pull himself together.  Lying on the floor, shocked and useless, was not acceptable.

 _Master Qui-Gon’s alive,_ Rillian reported.  Anakin couldn’t quite sense that portion of their bonds yet, so it was welcome news.

 _How’s he feel?_ Anakin asked, scrabbling for information.  They were going to need as much as possible.  If this was—if this was what it felt like, then—

 _I’m not sure._   There was a pause.  _I’m scared,_ Rillian admitted.  _I don’t want to hurt Master Obi-Wan._

_Do you think we’ll need to?_

Rillian sent confusion/worry/concern/hope.  _Won’t we have to?  Isn’t that what the Reconciliation Council wanted?_

“You are the first line of defense the Order has if he ever again succumbs to it,” Anakin quoted aloud, and then he bit his lip.  He couldn’t remember the Reconciliation Council’s instructions to them all without also remembering the way his Master had protected him, refusing to allow them to shove their way into Vader’s memories.

 _I need to see him, first,_ Anakin decided. _Until we know what’s happening, we are_ not _going to hurt him.  Keep trying to talk to Master Qui-Gon in the meantime._

 _Okay,_ Rillian said, and shifted her focus elsewhere.

Anakin took a deep breath.  “I’m coming, Master.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Can you walk?”

Qui-Gon was honestly surprised by the question.  It seemed a strange one to be asked in the middle of what felt like a seduction.  “I’m not sure.”

Venge straightened up, with a great show of reluctance.  “We need to find out,” he said, and ran his fingertips along the cuffs that bound Qui-Gon’s arms.  The cuffs split and fell, but not before Qui-Gon’s attention was caught by a flash of red.

“You’re bleeding.”  The bottom of Venge’s pale tunic sleeve had soaked up a large quantity of blood.

“From the cuff that broke,” Venge said, sounding unconcerned.  “It will keep.”  Then he smiled; Qui-Gon realized he was scowling.  “I promise you, it’s not serious.”

“This entire situation is serious,” Qui-Gon countered, wiggling his fingers and then lifting his arms, relieved when the movements were not too painful.

“Deadly serious,” his companion agreed, still staring down at him.  Being the focus of that laser-sharp gaze was like standing in an electrical field.  “Which is why I believe it is in our best interest to leave immediately.”

The air of seduction had been an act, a ploy for the recording devices in the room, Qui-Gon realized. A good one, too—he hadn’t been able to tell.

Or maybe it wasn’t entirely a ploy, he thought, and fought the urge to shiver.

Qui-Gon grasped the arms of the chair and pushed up, gaining his feet without too much difficulty.  His legs and back felt stiff and sore, and his knees were twinging their own warning.  “Are we in a rush?”  He could move, but not with anything resembling haste.

“I don’t know how long it will take Jenna to realize that events are not proceeding according to her plan.  You have no injuries beyond those caused by exposure, yes?” Venge asked.

“Not that I’m aware,” Qui-Gon said, taking one careful step.  So far, so good.

A flash of relief passed over Venge’s face, before it regained his carefully neutral expression.  He’d seen Obi-Wan use that mask during diplomatic ventures, but there was something about the Sith’s persona that made it chilling.

“That is good,” Venge said.  “I would not be able to heal you of any worse injuries right now.”

“Why not?”

Another head tilt; Qui-Gon was again reminded of a great cat regarding its curious and excitable prey.  “Overriding the worst of Fire is not the same as being immune to its effects.  I do not want to hurt you; right now I would not be able to help it.”

 _Oh._   “What did you mean, about Obi-Wan not being here?” Qui-Gon ventured.  He desperately needed to understand what was happening, if only to regain some sense of internal balance—and to cope with his conflicted feelings.

“Exactly what I said,” the Sith replied.  “Obi-Wan _is_ me; I am him.  I am what he is—I am bonded to you, to Rillian and Anakin, to Yoda and tiny Jeila Vin—but what I know, and what he knows?”  He smiled.  “That is where the biggest difference lies.”

“That is not a reassuring smile,” Qui-Gon couldn’t help but say.

“It was not meant to be.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Yoda awoke with a quiet snort, opening his eyes to his familiar, dark quarters.  He considered the situation carefully, taking a moment to determine where he would be most needed.

Decision made, Yoda grumbled and muttered as he made his slow climb out of bed.  A robe was procured, and his precious gimer stick came to his hand when called. 

This was not yet a war of ideology, but it _was_ one of souls.  Yoda always thought first and foremost about the ones that still needed protecting.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon managed three steps and then stumbled.  Venge caught him easily, taking his hand in a firm grip.  Qui-Gon flinched at the skin contact as cold energy flooded his body.  It was like being dunked in a frost melt.

Regardless of the chill, the energy eased his pain, and Qui-Gon felt far more alert.  He was also being swamped by déjà vu.  Considering the circumstances, the sensation was strange and unwelcome.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it without help,” Venge murmured, settling Qui-Gon’s arm over his shoulders.  Qui-Gon wanted to ask about the sudden influx of energy, and then he realized that Venge had not done it consciously—it was a side-effect of the Lifebond. 

“I didn’t expect…” and he faltered, because Qui-Gon wasn’t sure he knew how to explain.

Venge looked at Qui-Gon.  His face was very close—his eyes were, indeed, emitting a faint glow, more than just the reflection of light. 

Qui-Gon instinctively held his breath again.  There was something about that gaze that was completely disconcerting, and it made the accompanying pang of lust feel _very_ inappropriate.

Venge might have sighed; Qui-Gon wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not.  “Let’s go.”

Relieved that the moment was over, Qui-Gon eyed the door that the Duros had sealed.  Right then, he couldn’t Force-manipulate a pebble, let alone that weighty monstrosity.

“And here is another difference,” Venge said musingly, giving the sealed doors a considering look.

“Oh?”

“Obi-Wan is afraid of his strength.  I am not.”  He waved his hand, and the door did not open so much as it began to disintegrate in place.  Flecks of metal rained to the floor in a repetitive _chink-chink-chink_ sound.

The method was no different from the way Obi-Wan had shaped the cortosis pipe for his lightsaber hilt, just on a much larger scale.  It still made Qui-Gon apprehensive; it was casual destruction, and left him worried about what was to come.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Yoda found young Jeila Vin already awake, but not in her bed.  Instead, she was sitting in the rocking chair she and Obi-Wan had used for their nightly visits together, wrapped in her blanket.

“In bed, young Initiates should be,” Yoda said, his voice quiet in deference to the late hour.  He also did not wish to disturb the other crèche Masters, ones who might misunderstand the situation. 

“Chair,” Jeila replied, a mutinous expression firming her small features. 

Yoda sighed.  If ever there was confirmation that she and Obi-Wan were well-matched...  “Sit with you, I may?”

Jeila regarded him, suspicious, and then nodded.  She scooted over to make room, and Yoda held the chair still with the Force until he managed to clamber up.  His old bones did not like being disturbed from their rest.  An easy climb during the day was a bit difficult at night.

The toddler shared her blanket with him.  “A kind heart you have,” he murmured.  It was another sign of their good match, but now—now Yoda was worried about that, and many other things. 

It felt like their entire future was in peril.

 

*          *          *          *

 

There was a Duros sentry outside of the door, but not Orsa.  The guard started in surprise as the door swiftly went to bits, revealing Qui-Gon and Venge’s unconfined presence. 

“He does not look well,” Venge noted.  Even in the uneven light, Qui-Gon could see peeling violet patches on the Duros’ skin, and he was perspiring heavily.

The Duros took a step, his hand pawing feebly for the holstered blaster on his hip, before he simply toppled forward.  He sighed when he hit the ground, but did not move again.

“Huh,” Venge said, sounding thoughtful.  “I did not do that.”

“What happened?” Qui-Gon asked, staring down at the Duros.  It was one less obstacle to be concerned with, but…

“I was in the process of rendering him unconscious,” Venge replied.  “That is not unconscious; that is dead.”

“If Jenna is thinking of deserting this facility, perhaps she feels the need to clean house?” Qui-Gon wondered, disturbed by the guard’s sudden death.

Venge regarded the dead Duros for a moment longer.  “I am not so sure of that,” he said, and then muttered, “Fuck, I hope that isn’t an airborne contaminant.”

They walked down a long, dimly lit hall, spying several more bodies, all Duros.  “Are all of Zan Arbor’s flunkies Duros?” Venge asked.

“I don’t know,” Qui-Gon replied, perturbed by the signs of illness.  If it was a contagion, their chances of exposure were climbing.

As they progressed, Qui-Gon felt steadier on his feet, until he no longer needed Venge to support him.  His pace was slow, but Venge didn’t seem to mind.

At least until they came to the stairs.  At the sight of the long flight upwards, Qui-Gon sighed and leaned against the wall. 

“No lifts, even,” Venge said.  “Inconvenient.”

Qui-Gon nodded.  Climbing those steps would be his undoing, and he was already chafing against the weakness of his body.  “Very.”

Venge went to him, and, despite Qui-Gon’s token protests, slung Qui-Gon’s arm back over his shoulders.  “Shut up,” he instructed, and lifted them both into the air.  Qui-Gon couldn’t help but gasp at the abruptness in which his feet left the floor.

“This will be faster.”

Qui-Gon felt disconcerted, watching the steps flow past his feet as they followed the path upward.  “This is…this is a—”

Venge glared at him.  “If you say this is a frivolous waste of energy, I will drop you.”

For some reason, that made Qui-Gon bite back a smile.  “Then I won’t say it.”

They were almost to the top when Qui-Gon felt Venge’s shoulders tense.  “They’re amassing,” Venge said.  “I think Jenna has finally realized that we are not playing to the script.”

“I hate playing to expectations,” Qui-Gon agreed.

“Well, then you’ll loathe this one,” Venge said, and settled them both down at the top of the stairs.  “Stay put, and let me deal with our friends.”

“Obi-Wan—” Qui-Gon started to protest, before a finger was laid on his lips.  It was both an admonishment and, as the finger was removed, a very gentle caress that made his heart thump.

Venge looked up at him, a faint smile on his face.  “I tell you that Obi-Wan isn’t here, and still you call me by that name.”

Qui-Gon found his voice.  “You’re the one that said that you are him, and he is you.”

“And he needs you, so listen to reason for once,” Venge said, his expression hardening.  “You are injured, slow on your feet, and sense-addled.  You will fucking well stay put until I am certain that no one is going to shoot you.”

That was an oddly specific fate.  “Obi-Wan, what do you see?” Qui-Gon asked.

The temperature around them plummeted; Qui-Gon’s next exhalation emerged as a plume of mist.  Venge stepped back, just out of arm’s reach, before he answered Qui-Gon in a terse whisper.  _“Everything.”_

 

*          *          *          *

 

There were few things in the universe that he actually hated.  If he had to write a list, Sidious would occupy the first five slots.  However, the damned prescience cycles that had hounded him for his _entire fucking life_ had the slot just after.  He was seeing his mate damaged, his mate dead, his mate spitting rejection and hatred.

His own survival was in flux, too.  It made him wonder what else he had missed.

Qui-Gon was still looking at him, that stubborn set to his features.  If logic wasn’t going to sway him…well, he was not above begging. 

“Please,” he said.  Qui-Gon half-raised his hand and then dropped it, as if uncertain if his touch would be welcome.  

His stomach felt leaden, a sensation he did his best to ignore.   _Not for you.  Never for you_ , he’d once sworn, when Sidious had tried to claim him and brand him with a Sith name.

 _But for you?_   He regarded Qui-Gon: beloved features, hair hanging in long strands about his face, eyes the color of the most pristine warm and shallow oceans, hands that could drive him mad with the most innocent of touches. 

_For you, I will be him.  Anything that keeps you safe—even if it means keeping you safe from me._

“Please,” Venge said again.

Qui-Gon nodded once, a short, sharp movement.  Venge whirled and headed out into the open area of the warehouse, head lowered, arms loose at his sides.  There were at least twenty beings out there, armed to the teeth and ready for war.

He was fucking well going to give them one.

The first shot hit the duracrete near his left boot.  Angled blast.  Venge looked up; the would-be assassin was standing on one of the upper platforms, already aiming to fire again.

His patience was reserved for his allies.  Venge clenched his left hand into a fist and punched the air.

Metal shrieked as the platform was ripped free of its moorings, sending assassin and massive storage containers crashing down.  The resulting avalanche crushed two of his other foes, and drove the others out of hiding. 

They came forward with cautious steps, snarling or frowning, angry or terrified.  Venge glanced around at the number of weapons aimed at his body, and it took every bit of willpower he had to quash the desire to simply wipe them from existence.

It wasn’t actually going to be as easy as that.  Up here, the dampening effect seemed to be worse, affecting his ability to concentrate.  Not a drug at all, he realized, but had no time to contemplate the problem further.  All of his focus was needed here.  The rest could wait.

“That was your only warning,” Venge told them.  “I suggest you heed it.”

Their answer was to start firing.  He blocked the first incoming blaster bolt with his hand, hissing when the heat of it burned his palm.  He grabbed the blaster rifle, and then the arm, of the closest human assailant, and threw him against one of his fellow mercenaries.

Then they were upon him, and there was no more time to think at all.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Anakin caught up with Rillian just outside of the warehouse entrance.  “Don’t forget to watch your feet,” he said, and pushed the doors open.

They had to duck blaster fire immediately.  Rillian growled, hands reaching for her lightsabers.

“Just the one,” Anakin ordered, as they pressed up against opposite walls in the shallow entryway.  All three doors were standing open, but the fight was definitely in the cavernous section of the warehouse where they’d separated from Obi-Wan.  “Not until we’re out of close quarters.”

Rillian gave him a brief, chuffing laugh.  [Yes, Master.]

Anakin felt all of the hair on his neck stand up in protest.  “Yeah, well.  Uhm…I guess we know where all the bad guys went, right?”

[Right,] she agreed, and then her eyes widened.  [Master Obi-Wan is in there.  I think Master Qui-Gon, too.  And…]  She sniffed again, nose wrinkling.  [Electrical discharge.]

“Okay,” Anakin said, quailing.  Then he firmed his resolve.  Not until they knew, and the only way to find out was to go inside.  “Let’s see if they need help.”

He let Rillian go first, to make up for being so bossy and Masterly to his fellow Padawan.  They stayed low to the ground to avoid any more stray blaster bolts.

[I’m worried about what happens when we _do_ need to deflect lasers,] Rillian howled, almost inaudible over the weapons’ fire.  [I’ve been having trouble using the Force that way.]

“Me, too,” Anakin admitted, thinking of his encounter in the hangar bay.  A Jedi relied on those moments of foresight in battle.  All too often, it meant the difference between life and death.

Then he saw Obi-Wan, and halted in surprise.

His Master was right in the middle of a pitched battle against a bunch of bipedal, armored, low-rent mercenaries.  Despite the number of blades and rifles and blasters, Obi-Wan was flowing through the melee like it was nothing—fluid grace and fire.

Anakin winced when Obi-Wan was tagged in the arm by a lucky blaster shot.  Obi-Wan stole a vibroblade from one merc, spun around, and imbedded it in the throat of the man who’d shot him.

 _Okay, lots more fire than water right now,_ Anakin acknowledged, shivering—the Sith amber of his Master’s eyes was unmistakable. 

The bottom tried to fall out of his stomach, but Anakin refused to let it.  There would be plenty of time to panic later.

Venge noticed them when Rillian intercepted an incoming blaster shot.  “Oh, hello,” he said, and then rammed his elbow into a merc’s solar plexus.  Armor cracked and buckled; Rillian made a sympathetic sound.  “Have you found Zan Arbor yet?”

Anakin had been so overcome with concern about the Sith possibility that he’d completely forgotten the psycho scientist.  “Uh, no?”

Venge scowled.  “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

[Er—seeing if you needed help?] Rillian hedged, exchanging a nervous look with Anakin.  Venge sounded seriously temperamental, and his eyes were downright creepy, but otherwise he didn’t seem to be acting like an unhinged Sith Lord.

“Oh.”  Venge looked to be considering that, even as he dueled with the eight mercs still remaining.  There were a lot of bodies on the floor already, but Anakin didn’t spare them much sympathy—they were working for Zan Arbor, after all. 

“Please tell me that you at least ensured that she couldn’t escape.”

“Well, yeah,” Anakin said, glad he’d kept one of their mission priorities in mind.

Venge nodded, pleased, and then rammed a Zabrak in the face with the butt of his own rifle.  “Good.”

“Right.  Good.  Yeah.”  Anakin finally got ahold of his runaway thoughts.  “But Master, _what the hell happened?”_

[And why are we letting him do all the work?] Rillian wanted to know, looking torn between staying out of the brawl and wanting to wade right in.

“A drop of fire,” Venge said, and then let out an _oof_ of displaced air and went down when two of the mercs jumped him.

 _A drop of fire?  Or a drop of Fire?_   Anakin wondered, deflecting another blast and trying to focus on everything at once.  He couldn’t quite remember what that was, but the phrase sent a frisson of unease through his gut. 

Rillian roared in outrage and threw a pipe at one of the mercenaries, bouncing it off of his shoulder and ensuring that they now had their own set of bad guys to deal with.  Venge tossed the other one off and stood up, looking disheveled but unhurt.

Anakin raised his lightsaber, deflected a bolt, and then noticed the danger.  “Master!” he shouted, seeing one of the previously downed mercs recover his weapon.

Venge turned, hand raised, and then looked annoyed as the Kel Dor merc slumped to the floor, a smoking hole in his back.  “I told you to stay put,” he snapped.

Master Qui-Gon lowered the blaster he was carrying.  “I didn’t like the script,” he said in a mild voice.  To Anakin’s relief, he didn’t look hurt, either—just bruised and bedraggled.

For a second, Anakin honestly thought Master Qui-Gon was going to get yelled at—or at least shoved in a box until blaster fire stopped flying around.  Then Venge stepped into Master Qui-Gon’s personal space, murmuring something that Anakin thought might have been, “Stay close.” 

Rillian growled a warning.  Anakin looked and saw another contingent of armed mercenaries swarmed into the room.  “Are you kidding me?” he groused, as Rillian powered up her second lightsaber.

[Twenty more,] Rillian counted.  [Five for each of us!]

Master Qui-Gon frowned, raised his blaster, and fired.  The first mercenary fell with a gurgle as his throat became so much char. 

 _Wow,_ Anakin thought, impressed by the Master’s casual ease with the weapon.  He’d never known that Qui-Gon was good with a blaster.

Then there were way too many bad guys, and Venge’s effectiveness at plowing through them was reduced both by numbers and by keeping the assholes from downing Master Qui-Gon.  Anakin thought that maybe the box might have been a good idea, especially when Qui-Gon shouted and dropped to one knee.  His tunics were charred at the shoulder, and Anakin caught a glimpse of raw skin that made his stomach turn over.

Venge yelled something indecipherable and raised his hand.  Lightning leapt from his fingertips, striking the Trandoshan pair of mercs that was heading for them. 

 _Oh, boy,_ Anakin thought, half-panicked, as the mercs shrieked and went down.  He was actually sort of glad at that moment that Venge seemed to be on _their_ side.

When Quinlan came running in, heading straight for his Master, Anakin honestly thought that the other Knight was coming to help.  “You’re late!” he called, grunting as one of the mercs woke up and tried to _chew on his ankle_.  Anakin shook him off and kicked the man for good measure, because seriously, what the hell?

He looked up again at Rillian’s angry howl—just in time to see Quinlan Vos strike at Venge with his lightsaber.  Anakin felt his jaw fall open.  “Quinlan!” he shouted, horrified.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Qui-Gon roared.

Venge had already acted, moving so fast that Anakin had no idea what the hell he did.  Then he was standing perfectly still, his hand gripping Quinlan’s wrist.  Quinlan’s lightsaber was just shy of Venge’s side, the heat of the blade scorching his tunics.

Quinlan looked shocked, as if he hadn’t expected the too-swift counter.  “I have to—” he started to say.

Venge grabbed a fistful of Quinlan’s tunics, pulling Quinlan close.  “You have to _mean_ it,” he said in a pleasant voice, and then shoved.  Quinlan went sailing across the open room, landing with a heavy thud almost ten meters away.  Aayla disengaged the mercenary she was fighting and ran to her Master.

His eyes flashing, sparks dancing around his hands, Venge slowly turned his head back in their direction.

Anakin swallowed hard.  _Oh, shit._

 

*          *          *          *

 

After a time, Yoda thought that Jeila had fallen asleep, but then she sat up.  “Scared?”

It took him a moment to realize she was asking a question.  “Worried,” Yoda answered, his eyes half-closed as he kept watch over the swirls and eddies of the Force.  “Concerned I am, about your Master.”

“Obi,” Jeila said, as if in agreement.  Her lower lip quivered, like it did in certain younglings before tears came.

“Frightened, you are?” Yoda asked.

Jeila shook her head.  “Obi…is angry,” she said, with the slow, careful cadence of someone who wasn’t yet used to choosing her words.  “But…”

“But?” Yoda prompted, when the toddler frowned. 

“He shouldn’t have done that,” Jeila muttered.  “Obi isn’t scary.  Obi _loves_ us.”

Yoda’s eyes opened wide in surprise.  “Yes,” he agreed, feeling like an ancient fool.  “Yes, he does.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Rillian still looked horrified by Quinlan’s attack, but Anakin—Anakin was staring at him like he was Death incarnate.

“You’re _fine_ ,” Qui-Gon insisted with a low growl.  His hand was clamped tightly to his injured shoulder, the wound paining him enough that he hadn’t yet tried to stand.  “Dammit, don’t lose your self-control over something so trivial.”

It wasn’t trivial, it was _betrayal!_ Venge wanted to shout back.  Then Jenna’s remaining mercenaries started shooting at them again, and earned every single fucking bit of his ire.

He screamed and let loose the power his anger had kindled, a pressure wave that rattled the walls and shook the floor under his feet.  His adversaries fell like stones.

“Ow!” Anakin groaned, putting his left hand to his head.  “I think my eardrums just ruptured.”

Qui-Gon let out a sharp curse and glared up at him.  “Feel better now?”

The air in his lungs felt like fire, and Venge breathed it out.  He didn’t think he was imagining the hint of smoke that escaped his lips.  “A bit,” he said.

 [Are they dead?] Rillian asked.  Her fur was discharging static sparks as she moved close to one of the felled hired soldiers, nudging him with her foot.

“I don’t know, and I don’t fucking care,” Venge answered, feeling raw and tired.  “Aayla, I want you to sit on your idiot Master so that I don’t kill him.”

Aayla squeaked at the sudden attention.  “Are you—are you sure?”

Venge blinked and turned to regard the Twi’lek Padawan.  “Do you want me to?” he asked, curious.

“No!”  Aayla shook her head so swiftly that her _lekku_ swung back and forth.  “No, no, that’s okay!”

“I think you should kill them all.”

He froze in place.  Icy fingers danced up his spine and settled at the base of his neck, lingering and unwanted.  Venge looked down at Qui-Gon, who nodded once.

Not his imagination, then.  He couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.

Venge lifted his head and blew out a long, steadying breath.  “Hello, Sidious.”


End file.
